


take care of Sammy

by boykingofhell (alloftimeandspace)



Series: Codependency, Winchester Style [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Dean Finds Out, Dean is eighteen, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Sam, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean, Sam Has an Eating Disorder, Sam is fourteen, Sick Sam, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7367944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alloftimeandspace/pseuds/boykingofhell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the summer i shrank and you expanded<br/>(tw for eating disorder mention)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been a damn good summer, or at least it should've been. Sam was growing, limbs turning lanky, hair falling long over his face, which was losing its baby softness in favour of a sharp jawline. They were renting a house, somewhere in Arizona, and they'd spent most of the summer there with no sign of Dad or anything to hunt. There were no cases, and theoretically, nothing to worry about. They'd had a good laugh about the house, something god awful and straight out of the seventies. There were horrible yellowed curtains framing all of the windows, which Dean had waged war on when they'd first gotten there, and the kitchen was plastered with floral wallpaper. The appliances were all ancient, but they worked, and there was AC, sort of. The unit was old and creaky, but it was still a relief from the arid desert. There were two bedrooms and a washing machine, not that Dean ever did laundry, and despite the outdated wood panelling in the living room, it was amazing after months of motel rooms.

The desert heat was dry and scorching, and Dean spent most of his time in the lake. The worry lines that usually creased his forehead had faded in favour of freckles brought to the surface by the sun, spattered across his nose and cheeks. He had gotten even more tan and his hair had gotten lighter. He'd let it grow out a little, and it framed his face and made it seem softer, happier, more childish. Sam liked seeing him so carefree, wasn't sure if he'd really ever seen him like that before. He'd been out there all morning, doing cannonballs into the lake with reckless abandon. It looked fun, and Sam wanted to join him so badly that it made his whole body ache. He pulled at the sleeve of his hoodie, tugging it down even further.

Dean was out of the lake now. Sam could see him from the kitchen window, coming up from the beach in nothing but his boxers with a boyish grin across his face and water dripping down his chest, drying as it fell. He was cut just this side of slender, all toned muscle and bronze skin, radiating the desert sun. A god damn creature of summer. He took off running towards the house and Sam scrambled back to the couch he'd previously been occupying and tried to look like he'd been there the whole time. Dean came barging into the house, grin still plastered across his face as he greeted Sam and leaned over into the fridge, looking for a Coke. Sam pointedly _didn't_  notice Dean's gorgeous figure, bent over with a casual grace that was all Dean. Sam was lithe, long limbed and coltish, but Dean was _beautiful_ , all filled out and toned and moving around like he knew his body, in the same way that Sam was still learning his.

"C'mon Sammy, you can't stay in here all day," Dean said light heartedly, popping open the can of Coke and leaning easily against the kitchen counter. Sam avoided his gaze and tried to ignore the curve of Dean's mouth against the can as he took a long drink, head tilted back just slightly.

"'M fine," Sam muttered, staring blankly at the antenna TV, playing some sitcom he'd never heard of. They only got three channels and it was the middle of the day.

"Gonna go get groceries later, wanna come?" Dean was looking at him expectantly, crooked smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. He loved driving the Impala across the desert. It was open and empty, nothing for miles, road stretching out across the horizon and coming to meet the sun dipping lower in the sky. He could blare his music as loud as he wanted and roll the windows down, and there was no to complain except Sam.

"No thanks." He heard Dean set the can on the counter and move across the kitchen. Dean collapsed onto the couch next to him carelessly and threw his arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam felt so out of place next to Dean, fully dressed and pale juxtaposed against Dean's mostly naked state and summer tan skin.

"What's with you? And what's with the hoodie? Man, it's like a thousand degrees out there."

"'M cold," Sam managed, wriggling away from Dean's touch and staring straight ahead.

"The hell?" Dean was looking _at_  him now, and the boyish ease was melting into worry. Sam could see it on his face out of the corner of his eye, and his chest twisted. He hadn't meant for Dean to notice. To worry. "No way."

"'S nothing." Sam was staring _through_  the TV, empty stomach twisting itself into knots. He could hear the AC dully buzzing somewhere in the distance, could feel Dean's eyes on him. Looking him up and down. Dean was smart. Dean would figure it out and then he wouldn't be trusted any more, and he wouldn't be able to keep this up. Half of him wanted to be left to it, and the other half wanted to curl up on Dean's lap and confess and get rid of the awful emptiness that had started in his stomach and slowly infected the rest of his body. He ignored the latter half and continued to stare lethargically at the TV set.

"Kiddo." Dean's voice broke the silence like a warning. Sam stood up and walked away without a word, taking great care not to make eye contact with Dean. He was afraid Dean would see something in his expression. "Sam?" Dean yelled after him, craning his neck over the back of the couch. "Sammy?"

Sam heard his voice carry down the hall, but he ignored it and stumbled into the room he'd claimed as his when they'd moved in, locking the door behind him. He collapsed back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, tuning out everything except the noises from his stomach that he couldn't quite seem to silence. The ceiling was old and cracked, the cracks forming pictures that ran in spidery lines above the room. Sam followed the lines with his eyes and thought of nothing at all, except how hungry he was. He didn't hear Dean outside his door, banging his fist against it and yelling for him.

"Damn it Sammy, open the fucking door!" Dean heard nothing from inside the room. He let his head fall forward against the door and slammed his hand weakly against it. "Sammy, c'mon." Still no answer, no movement, nothing. Sam was still staring at the ceiling tiredly when Dean came into the room, having picked the lock. Dean didn't know what he expected to find, but his little brother laying still on the bed, staring listlessly at the ceiling was not what he would've guessed. Sam didn't even flinch when Dean opened the door. He'd vaguely heard him come in, but he hadn't really been paying attention. It was getting harder and harder to keep up the energy required to concentrate on stuff like that. Everything had become so dull, days sliding together in a tired haze that seemed to jumble in his head.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was nothing but a quiet hum in the background to him. The pounding in his head was getting harsher, and the emptiness in his stomach felt so loud that he didn't understand how Dean couldn't hear it. He felt the bed dip next to him, and then Dean had a hand on his forehead. Checking for a fever, Sam realized. There wouldn't be a fever. A fever would've been easy to explain. Dean pulled his hand away after a moment, and then leaned forward towards Sam carefully, pressing his lips gently to Sam's forehead. It was more accurate for telling temperature, or at least it should've been. But Sam knew there wouldn't be a fever, knew that if anything, his skin would be ice cold. He felt Dean's warm hand pressed softly against his side, underneath the layers he was wearing, and he faintly wondered why.

He felt the weight shift again and saw Dean's back as he walked out of the room. Sam thought maybe he was done trying, but in what felt like seconds, Dean was back again. Sam thought he must've blacked out or something. Dean was saying something, Sam could see his lips moving, but he didn't hear a word. The whole world seemed like it had slowed down, all distorted in Sam's vision. He felt Dean guiding him to a sitting position and his vision went black for a moment. When it cleared, he was sitting up against the pillows and Dean was pressing something to his lips. He drank it obediently, didn't even question it because it was so warm and he was so cold, and he couldn't form enough of a coherent thought to wonder what it was. He felt it slip down his throat and into his stomach, spreading a little bit of warmth throughout his body, and then it was gone and Dean had disappeared again. The chill returned, attacking his whole body.

It seemed like hours this time, before Dean came back with his arms full of blankets. Sam's head was throbbing and his stomach was starting to ache sharply. He tried to say something to Dean, but his throat closed up and the words couldn't escape. Dean murmured something that he didn't catch, and he stopped fighting to sit up and let himself fall back into the bed and into sleep.

Sam woke up disoriented, head pounding in a dull steady rhythm. It took him a couple minutes to figure out where he was, which was nestled in the bed in his room in their rental house in Arizona, with Dean asleep next to him, arms wrapped around him protectively. And then Sam panicked. Dean was laying next to him, pressed so close to him that there was no way he wouldn't have noticed how different Sam felt since the last time they shared a bed, all bone and nothing soft. That would've been enough to scare him shitless on its own, but he started to remember how he'd gotten there in the first place, and he panicked even more. Dean knew. Dean knew and he'd made him eat and oh God Sam had eaten something and he'd failed and he was sloppy and-

"Sammy, sweetheart, calm down," Dean murmured soothingly, cutting through Sam's thoughts, one hand coming up to tangle in Sam's hair and the other splayed across Sam's back. "Breathe, baby, breathe. In and out." Sam obeyed, burying his head into Dean's bare chest and trying to sync his breathing with Dean's. "There you go. Easy, Sammy." Sam found his voice.

"De I-"

"Shhh," Dean soothed, voice smooth and reassuring in Sam's ear. "Calm down, kiddo."

Sam didn't remember falling back to sleep, but he must have, because when he woke up again it was no longer dark. Dean was still there, awake this time, watching Sam wake up. Sam looked up at him, wide-eyed and terrified all over again. "De, please don't be mad, I didn't mean to-I just wanted-"

Dean bent his head down slightly and kissed Sam, cutting him off. "'M not mad at you. I'm mad at me for taking so damn long to see that something was wrong. I almost lost you, baby brother. I can't lose you." Sam thought he heard Dean's voice crack, but that would've been impossible. Dean didn't cry. Dean wasn't vulnerable the way he was. Dean was strong. And then Dean asked, hesitantly, "'S this why you didn't want to share a bed?"

Sam winced. It was so much more than not sharing a bed, which he was sure Dean knew, even if he didn't voice it. It was keeping his distance on the couch, when Dean brought home movies he'd probably stolen, grinning like he'd brought home a prize, just for Sammy. It was wrapping his food in his napkin when Dean wasn't looking, playing with it and shredding it beyond recognition, anything to make it look like he'd eaten. It was lying about eating, throwing food away and feeling so fucking guilty because food was expensive and Dean had to work so hard to get it. He knew Dad's money was almost gone. He wasn't sure how Dean did it, but he knew that it wasn't easy and he was just...throwing it away. Lying about it. He hated lying to Dean, but that was all he seemed to have been doing lately. It was always wearing layers, baggy clothes, at first to hide the weight he was losing and then, because he was always so cold. He couldn't go swim, because Dean would see him and start asking questions. No hugs, no physical contact, none of their usual closeness. He missed Dean's touch, in more ways than one. His hands sliding up Sam's back, pressing him closer, the two of them falling together, sweat soaked and beautiful. Dean mouthing at his neck, at his hips, at the juncture between his shoulder blades. Dean's surprising tenderness, always making sure it was good for Sammy, that Sammy knew how much he meant to him. Why had he given all of that up? Sam wasn't sure if he'd chosen this or not. He couldn't remember if he'd thought he could stop, or if he'd started without realizing it.

Dean's voice brought him out of his head. "Sammy?"

"Huh?"

"'S this why you didn't want to share a bed?" he repeated quietly.

"De, it's not you, it's-"

"I know."

"I wanted to, I did, but then you'd know and you'd make me stop and you'd hate me and-" Sam was rambling and he knew it, but he couldn't seem to stop the words falling from his mouth.

"Hey, hey, calm down kiddo. I don't hate you, okay? I don't think I know how. You-" he paused, taking a deep breath. "I should've known. I got suspicious, sure, but I brushed it off and that's all on me." He trailed his fingers lightly down Sam's back and wrapped them around Sam's fragile waist. "I can hear those gears grindin', baby, don't overthink this. 'S not your fault."

He couldn't look at Dean. "I scared you. I did this to myself."

Dean didn't say anything for a moment. "Didn't want to lose you, Sammy. That's why I was scared. I need you, little brother. Shit happens, and we deal with it. We'll deal with this too." He laughed a little. "I mean, we fight god damn monsters for a living. That's all this is. 'S not your fault, Sammy." He didn't really believe Dean, but he nodded because it was Dean, and Dean always took care of him.

"We're gonna get you better, okay?" Dean assured him, kissing his forehead lightly. Sam didn't have an answer to that. He didn't want to get better, not really. But he hated seeing Dean upset. He hated knowing he'd made Dean upset. Dean ran a hand through Sam's hair, talking like he knew what Sam was thinking. "I know you don't want to get better. I know I'll have to fight you over it. But I will, Sammy. It'll be okay, you'll see."

Sam didn't answer. He didn't really think he needed to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets Sam to start eating again

_Don't tell Dad._  He knew Dean didn't owe him a thing but he'd begged anyway, voice quiet, whine niched in the back of his throat no matter how much he tried to steady his tone as he stood in the doorway, half hiding his face. Dean hadn't responded at first, keeping himself busy puttering around the kitchenette in the golden glow that broke through the eastern window, facing out towards the lake over the dingy kitchen sink. He was still mussed with sleep, bare chested, tousled hair falling long around the sides of his sleepy face. He was so god damn pretty, Sam thought, never dared to call him that to his face, but he thought it all the same. The coffee started sizzling in the pot and the smell wafted through the room, and Dean turned to face Sam, reclining back against the counter and bracing his arms against it on either side of him, and searching Sam's shadowed face. "'S that what you're worried about?"

Sam recoiled against the tone in Dean's voice, shrinking back into himself. "I just-'m sorry, I swear I am."

Dean looked somewhat confused, head cocked just slightly, pretty lips barely parted, face full of concern. He thought before he spoke again, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip before he began. "'M not mad. I mean it, 's that what you're worried about? 'Cause you don't have to be. I'll take care of you; I always do. 'S no reason to tell Dad."

Sam hoped the look on his face conveyed his gratefulness, because his words had gotten stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Dean crossed from the counter to the doorway and stood in front of Sam for a moment, green eyes staring deep into Sam's, until he started to squirm under the gaze, and then he surged forward and wrapped his arms around Sam's skinny frame. "C'mon, little brother. Breakfast time."

Sam felt his stomach drop. "De-"

"No arguing," Dean ordered, turning back around and rummaging through the bare cabinets. "Whatcha want?" he asked over his shoulder.

Sam chewed on his lip until he tasted blood, deliberating between fighting Dean or fighting with his body later.

"Sammy?"

"De just-just don't push me okay? I'll eat."

Desperation leaked out between his words and he cast his eyes down to the floor, staring at the hole in his left sock with great, great concentration. He could feel Dean's eyes back on him, parental gaze bearing heavy into his face.

"Sammy," Dean warned lowly.

He stared even harder at the ground, trying to keep the tears forming at the corners of his eyes from spilling over.

"I told you I'd fight you on this, and I will if I have to."

He curled his toes into the cheap linoleum floor and squeezed his eyes shut against Dean's voice. It wasn't harsh, there was no note of meanness in it, but it was too much to process all at once. He felt a tear drip down his cheek and he, embarrassingly, sniffled and reached a hand up to scrub at his face and wipe away the offending tear.

"Hey, easy tiger," Dean's voice soothed, and once more he was wrapped in one of Dean's hugs, warm, sun tanned arms stretching around him securely.

"'M sorry," Sam sniffled miserably, feeling more like a little kid than he had in years.

Dean didn't answer right away, focused intently on running one hand through Sam's hair to calm him. Sam let himself be held and did his best to hide his face. After a long time of standing there, letting Dean's hands soothe him, he heard Dean say softly, "I have an idea, but you gotta trust me." He nodded and Dean pulled back from him, and he was aware that he let out an involuntary, albeit soft whimper at the loss of contact. One of Dean's hands, calloused but gentle, reached up to push Sam's bangs back from his forehead and tilt his head back, soft mouth barely pressing to his temple. It was so motherly that Sam would've almost laughed, had the circumstances been different. Dean was weird like that, one second, his big brother, tough and strong and ready to take on the world, built from calloused hands and strong, trim limbs, all fight and whisky and buried emotions. And then, just like that, the softness broke through, all gentle and full of concern and so god damn maternal that it caught Sam off guard. But it was all so Dean that somehow it made sense, the odd combination just another form of compartmentalization that allowed Dean to keep going and going.

He allowed himself to be led by the hand to bedroom, where he and Dean had slept the night before. The bed was still warm, covers thrown to the end of the bed with a "Sam and Dean" sized dent in the middle of the ancient mattress, shaped like they're been curled up together like a couple of kittens. Sam longed to go back to bed and give up on the day before it'd even really started, but Dean wasn't going to let him. He was vaguely aware of being handed his ratty tennis shoes and told to put them on, but then he zoned out, coming back to the present only when Dean gently shook him by the shoulders. He was crouched in front of Sam, staring deep into his face again. "Earth to Sammy," he said, "you alive in there?"

"Huh? Yeah 'm fine." Another gaze, studying his face. Dean wasn't stupid, but he must've decided to let it slide just then, because Sam found himself being ordered to "put these on" again, as Dean slipped back into parent mode momentarily. He stared for a moment before he realised that Dean was handing him his shoes, and expecting him to actually put them on. "Umm...yeah." He fumbled with them as he tried to take them from Dean, brain miles away and shrouded in layers of fog. "Yeah, okay."

He absentmindedly noted that Dean had put on jeans and a ragged tshirt as he moved to shove his feet into the shoes, and then promptly fell on his ass, just missing the edge of the bed frame sticking out at the corner. "Jesus Sammy, careful. You know what, never mind. C'mere." He felt himself being lifted off the ground before he had the chance to protest, being carried fucking bridal style out of the house and into the passenger seat of the Impala before he could figure out what the hell was going on. The driver's side door opened, and Dean slid in next to him with a lopsided grin on his face in answer to the bitchy look on Sam's.

"I could've walked," he mumbled sourly.

"You were bein' slow," Dean laughed. His laugh was the most beautiful thing Sam'd heard all morning, sounded like the god damn sun bursting from his lips. "'Sides, you looked all cute bein' carried like a girl."

Sam felt a blush spread like a fire across his face, cheeks burning hot. "'M not a girl," he protested, but something in him felt a little lighter than before. Dean could sense it too, he knew he could.

"You like bein' my girl and you know it," he said, turning to face Sam with that stupid grin still plastered across his face. Sam couldn't help the smile that teased across his mouth. "See, there it is." Sam ducked his head and looked intently out the window. "So pretty," Dean murmured reverently, taking one hand off the wheel and reaching across to take Sam's hand in his, his tone syrupy and sweet and almost enough to convince Sam that it was really true. "You know that, right? You're so fucking pretty Sammy, I swear to god."

"De-"

"I mean it sweetheart. Always be pretty to me." Sam wanted to argue with him, to make Dean see him the way he saw himself, but he knew it would've been pointless. He didn't deserve Dean. But he had Dean, and he was scared to lose him. A knot started to form in his stomach, thinking about Dean seeing the ugly in him and giving up. It would happen eventually, he was sure of it. "Stop thinkin' so hard kiddo. Gonna burst a blood vessel or somethin'."

Sam rolled his eyes and looked out towards the road, and then, for the first time, thought about the unexpected trip enough to panic. "Where are we going? I can't eat diner food De, I can't, I-"

"Sammy, calm down," Dean said evenly. "I'm not an idiot. We're going to the store."

"The store?"

"Like I said, trust me," Dean told him. Sam quieted again, sinking back into his thoughts. He missed the glance Dean shot towards him, nervousness hovering close to the surface. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement and flinched and Dean drew back the arm he’d reached towards the radio like he’d been stung.

“De, I didn’t mean-”

“‘S alright kiddo, take a deep breath,” Dean murmured, keeping his face and voice even. Sam had gotten more skittish lately, a combination of the abundance of caffeine to keep his body running instead of taking his energy from food and his ever-slipping perception of reality. He kept catching things out of the corner of his eyes, shadowy movements lurking just out of sight, on the faded edges of his mind. Dimly, he tried to recall the last time he wasn’t so unfocused and on-edge, hands always trembling and unsteady, head full of coffee-induced paranoia that popped up at the worst times. Dean reached for the radio again, but not before warning Sam in a steady voice, like it wasn’t ridiculous to have to warn his little brother that he was going to move his arm. Static spilled through the speakers and Sam felt himself flinch again, wincing because he knew Dean saw it. Dean said nothing, just kept playing with the radio dial. The static faded, replaced with the grainy tones of a classic rock station, playing a song he vaguely recognized. Dean sang softly along, voice warm in his throat as they pulled into town and navigated the streets to the grocery store.

The town was small and sleepy, locally owned stores and everyone in everyone else’s business. Sam was glad that it was summer; he’d never liked small town schools. People were always poking into his life and asking him invasive questions. Dean pulled the car into an empty parking spot and hopped out with more energy than Sam thought he actually had. “C’mon kiddo,” he called back into the car before shutting his door behind him.

Sam reluctantly climbed out, keeping his gaze trained on the ground sulkily as he trailed after Dean. He was tired, too tired to care about anything, much less a trip to the grocery store. God, if anything, it make him want to panic even more, surrounded by all that food. A warm hand reached for his own, fingers entwining smoothly with his. Dean’s hand was bigger than his, with long fingers skilled at cleaning guns and working on the Impala. He’d spent a lot of the summer under the hood of Baby, tuning her up even when nothing was really wrong, always coming in smelling like grease, with smudges all over his face and blackening his fingers. And then he’d come in the house and take a shower and make the whole room smell like the soap he’d nicked from a drugstore a few towns back. It smelled good; sometimes Sam liked to steal it in the shower ‘cause it reminded him so much of Dean and he liked falling asleep smelling like Dean on nights that he was out late working or hustling pool or whatever he did to make money while they were there. He wasn’t actually sure that there were any bars in that sleepy little town, but Dean always seemed to be able to find the important places - that was, the bars, the clubs, the stores that were easiest to steal from, the diners with the best pie, the places with the cheapest food. A long life of living dirt poor and forever on the road lent itself to small talents like that.

Sam heard Dean say again, “Earth to Sammy,” and he blinked, long lashes resting softly on the high bones of his cheeks for a moment before he opened his eyes wide and tilted his head up a little to look at Dean.

“Hmm?”

Dean had a basket in one hand, still gripping Sam’s with the other as they stood in front of a few rows of fruits in wooden crates and vegetables on the refrigerated shelves. “Let’s pick out some stuff that you’ll eat okay?”

Sam stopped and stammered out, “But...it’s expensive. We always get boxed stuff ‘cause it’s cheap.”

“I don’t care.” Dean said, leaving no room for argument. “Let me worry about the money. Right now, we gotta get you to eat and I know you’re not gonna do that unless you’re comfortable with what you’re eating. So, go pick out some of your damn rabbit food or whatever else you think you can handle. And don’t worry about the price right now,” he added firmly. Sam stood still for a moment, unsure. “It’s alright Sammy,” Dean reassured him gently, nudging him forward. Sam moved slowly, trying to figure out what he could stomach. Lettuce was a good start. Hardly any calories in lettuce, and then all he had to do was get some toppings that weren’t so bad, right? He could just eat salads. It would be okay. Right? He grabbed a couple bags of lettuce and handed them to Dean, who took them without comment and put them in the basket he was holding. Then came celery and cucumbers, and at Dean’s urging, peppers and tomatoes too. And then fruit, apples and blueberries and strawberries and bananas. He tried to stop there, but Dean chided gently, “What about all those food groups you’re always going on about? This ain’t all of ‘em.”

“De,” he whined, feeling childish again. “Please.” Dean shook his head and took Sam’s hand again, leading the way up and down various aisles. He didn’t even tease Sam, just talked him through it all, reminding him of what his body needed to survive, making sure he got all of the nutrients without pushing him. He didn’t comment on the sheer amount of health food either. There was low calorie bread (because Sam was scared of the carbs) and unsweetened yogurt and thin little wheat crackers with hardly any nutritional value, and soup that was mostly water, and black bean hummus (which Dean thought looked absolutely disgusting, but said nothing), because Sam refused to get any meat and Dean said he needed protein. As an afterthought, Dean picked up some tea for him too, to help settle his stomach after meals and keep him calm. There was nothing sweet, nothing that looked remotely edible to Dean, but this wasn’t for him. It was for Sam, and Sam was feeling less panicked than he had when they’d gotten there, so Dean’s job had been done well.

“What about you?” Sam asked quietly as they walked to the register, Sam still wondering to himself where the hell they were getting the money for all of this. He’d tried to voice this to Dean a few times while they were there, but Dean just brushed it off, telling Sam to “let him worry about it”.

“‘S not for me,” Dean told him.

“But-”

“Don’t worry about it kiddo. If this is what it takes to get you better, this is what it takes. I’ll live.” Sam knew that Dean cared more than he let on, no matter how tough he wanted to pretend to be. And he must’ve been really worried if he was planning on giving up his sugary cereals and burgers swimming in grease and calorie heavy sodas to help Sam get better. The thought made Sam’s chest tighten painfully, but Dean’s hand on his back soothed him again. They paid, with cash, which surprised Sam, who’d been expecting one of their fake credit cards to make an appearance, and then made their way back to the Impala, Dean holding a couple plastic grocery bags in one arm and guiding Sam gently with the other. The drive back was quiet; Dean’s vaguely out of tune humming mixing with the warm rumble of the engine and keeping the silence from feeling too deafening. Sam didn’t notice that they were back until he realised that Dean was climbing out of the car. “C’mon kiddo,” he said again, scooping up the bags and heading towards the house.

Sam followed reluctantly, trailing after his big brother with apprehension building in his stomach. Dean made his way back to the kitchen and set the bags on the counter, turning to face Sam. “Go get a shower, pipsqueak. I’ll make you something to eat, okay?” Sam took a great interest in the sickeningly patterned floor again, digging his big toe into the ground.

“‘M not hungry,” he mumbled. And then his stomach growled, hungry to the point of aching, and he knew without looking that Dean was making  _that_ face, one eyebrow raised just slightly, silently exuding “sure you’re not”.

“Go get a shower,” he ordered again. “Don’t worry about anything else yet.” Sam didn’t know what else to do but obey. He turned and headed towards the one bathroom in the house. It was small and the lights made his head hurt, so he kept them off and relied on the light from the tiny window at the top of the wall. The warm water made him dizzy, and he had to sit down a couple times, but he made it through his shower, numb and trying not to think too hard about anything. It was just going through the motions, one step after another. He shivered his way through getting dressed, pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie because he was still freezing, despite the summer heat. All bones and nothing to keep him warm, that’s what Dean said. He dreaded walking back to the kitchen, but he knew Dean would just come looking for him if he didn’t come out soon.

Trembling, he walked back down the hallway to find the table set for the two of them. Dean had made easy food, soup and crackers and tea and water. Sam swallowed hard and sat down in his seat, apprehension growing heavy and sinking in his stomach. Dean heard him move and turned to face him, smiling widely at him. “So pretty, you know that?”

Sam felt a flush creep hot across his cheeks and he ducked his head. “‘M not,” he protested weakly, but Dean’s honey-smooth voice had a way of lightening his thoughts a little.

Dean sat down at the table across from him with his own breakfast (even though it was more like lunch by then) and said gently, “Alright kiddo, eat up.” Sam ate, little by little, spooning the broth into his mouth with great concentration, trying not to think about anything else except for the constant movement of his hand to his mouth. Dean praised him as he ate, giving him compliment after compliment every time he ate a bite, telling him how pretty he was, how beautiful he looked, how glad Dean was that Sam was _his_. It was a slow process, but they’d both expected that. And in the end, Sam’s finished most of his soup and crackers and his stomach stopped aching so badly, and Dean told him over and over how proud of him he was. Once Sam was finished, and Dean deemed that he’d eaten enough, Dean scooped him up gently and carried him to the couch, like he was all but eight again. “Dean?”

“You did good baby boy,” Dean whispered to him as he set him carefully down on the couch, and then lay down next to him and tangled himself around Sam protectively. “Just rest for a little bit kiddo.” Sam nodded and relaxed his head against Dean’s chest, matching his breathing to the steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest. He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he was exhausted and he drifted off within minutes, Dean watching over him as he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (dedicated especially to Steelybo, who encouraged continuing this piece and waited ever so patiently for my slow ass to finish writing it)

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on tumblr - http://demonblood-boyking.tumblr.com/  
> // currently taking fic requests //


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